


The True Mystery

by FacetheRavenclaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also mentions of self harm, And Sherlock's a jerk, F/M, First Meetings, Poor Molly just doesn't wanna be awkward, Pre-Series, Sherlolly - Freeform, and isn't focused on all that much, because it's, but like???, but yeah technically "mentions" of self harm, it's a low key murder mystery, it's just the history of the victim?, so uh, thought I'd add the warning to be safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 00:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FacetheRavenclaw/pseuds/FacetheRavenclaw
Summary: In which Molly Hooper meets Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and does her typical Molly thing. This means something entirely different to her than it does to him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, hi! First foray writing Sherlock fanfiction; hope it turned out well. I'm a bit brutal to poor Molly, but seeing as it is pre-series, I think this is, unfortunately, fairly accurate.
> 
> Also, you may recognize me as the one who never finished that Doctor Who fic that only ever got a prologue? Ummm...yeah. Oops.
> 
> Oh, and my italics seem to have been removed, which I'm quite distressed about because it takes away from the story, but oh well. I don't know how to fix it. Enjoy what you can, I guess!

Lestrade called and gave her a warning, hurried and awkward and generally a mess. Said “we’ve got someone coming in” and “he's really very good at what he does” but apparently “he's just...difficult. Don't take it personally.”

Molly was all smiles and pleasantries at the time, of course; she always is. But Lestrade’s frantic mixture of warnings and reassurance did, understandably, leave an addled uneasiness churning around in the pit of her stomach. 

Now, as she awaits Lestrade and Mystery Guest’s imminent arrival, the feeling hasn’t faded.

She wishes she could call the fluttery sensation inside her a result of “butterflies,” but there is nothing cutesy about this. Lestrade’s descriptions of this man were...unflattering, to say the least, and full of cautionary warnings, such phrases a zookeeper might use with visitors before handling a notoriously prickly animal.

So Molly decides the fluttering beasts inside her are not butterflies, but moths. Hairy, flapping, petulant moths. As if her usual butterflies are staring into a demonic funhouse mirror, and she is stuck with the horrific reflection. 

When it’s near time, Molly lays out Jonathan Small - Lestrade’s corpse of choice. And his associate’s, that is, but Molly would rather not think of that, what with the moths and all. Instead, she busies herself examining the body, making little observations, even taking a blood sample. The man, in his late thirties, just passed away yesterday, and she knows she needs to do an examination, give any information she can. Might as well do so now and make herself useful.

Molly’s just about to jot her observations down when she hears the lab door open. It’s a hesitant, sticking-one’s-toe-in-water kind of sound. She turns, and there’s Lestrade, smiling just as awkwardly as he sounded over the phone.

“Molly,” he greets. “Uh...well, this is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

He steps aside, leaving room for his companion to enter, and that’s it. The moths fly off, and the butterflies soar in.

Lestrade’s lackluster presentation doesn't do the image any justice. Tall. Hair, equal amounts dark and bouncy and messy and wow. A jungle of soft locks demanding exploration. Or they would be, if the eyes weren't drowning everything else out. 

Oh, the eyes. They’re supposed to be windows to the soul, but this man’s reveal nothing about him. Rather, it’s the reverse, like they’re pulling something out of you. Studying and analyzing and cataloging your life’s story. Making you wish you had more to tell.

So yeah, butterflies.

“Uh,” she squeaks, rendered temporarily mouse-like.

An arched brow hovers over one of those scrutinizing eyes and is aimed at Lestrade, who hops into action.

“Sherlock, this is Molly. She's -”

“Molly Hooper!”

Even she jumps at her interjection, and she notes that another brow has shot up to meet Sherlock’s first. Deterred but anxious for damage control, she presses forward.

“I-I was just saying that it's...it’s Molly Hooper. In case you - you wanted to know.”

Finally, Sherlock Holmes speaks.

“If I’d wanted to know, I could have simply checked your tag. Which I did, by the way, so you’re being rather redundant.”

“Oh,” Molly looks down at her tag, dangling pathetically on her oversized lab coat. “Right. I...forgot. About that.”

“Clearly,” says Sherlock simply, as if that one word is all she’s worth.

Desperate to save (her very red) face, Molly forces a smile, “So you’re the one helping Scotland Yard, then? With the case?”

“Again, I’d think that’s quite clear.”

Molly wonders how she could possibly have made him think so poorly of her in such a short amount of time. Usually it takes her at least a few hours before she embarrasses herself.

Lestrade must notice her plight; he levels the offender in question with an admonishing stare.

“Sherlock,” he grits out in warning, but his all too ambivalent friend merely sighs.

“If we’re done with these tediously unnecessary introductions, I believe there's a corpse in need of observation?” Sherlock says it like a question, but his gaze leaves no room for answer (to the contrary, at least). 

Lestrade appears relieved to escape their current entanglement, “Right, the body. Mind laying him out for us, Molly?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “She already did. Honestly.”

“He's right,” says Molly, not quite able to avoid Sherlock’s of course I am expression. “The body’s right here.”

She gestures to the cadaver of interest, and they all draw closer to it. Instinctively, like she’s done this a million times, Molly steps back to allow Sherlock some space, and she notes that Lestrade has done the same.

And if she thought her heart was fluttering before, then this must be full-blown palpitation. 

It’s like he's created his own universe. Circling the corpse as if in orbit, Sherlock is methodical and certain in his movements. He prowls around the body, hovers his hands over it, flits his gaze across it. At one point he even sniffs it. He's engrossed as though this corpse is a novel; Molly doesn’t even question why they let him flip through every page.

At last, he steps back and takes it all in, the whole picture.

“How long?”

Molly and Lestrade start at this sudden breach of silence, the latter of whom speaking up, “What?”

“Not you,” Sherlock dismisses, then looks at Molly, “You. How long?”

She blanches for a moment at the nondescript question. How long what? But once Molly takes her moment of start, she finds it's not all that difficult to discern what he means.

“From what I can tell, he's been dead about thirty-four hours. So around four o’clock yesterday morning.”

“I can do the math,” Sherlock says in a placid, matter-of-fact tone that Molly decides is at least better than derision.

He adds in the same voice of slight improvement, “You’d just looked over the body yourself before we came in, correct? What did you observe?”

Her initial reaction is to ask how he knew that, but even as the question forms, she decides it's best to simply move on. He's right, and that's what matters, so instead Molly focuses on the problem at hand.

“There were small incisions along his arms,” she says. “I'd say self-inflicted, but…”

Lestrade frowns, genuinely perplexed, “He had a history of self-harm; where's the problem?”

Sherlock scowls (on her behalf? Surely not) and blatantly ignores him, instead prompting Molly, “But?”

“But there are scars on his back just like them. I don't think he would've bothered trying to reach back there, and that's assuming he could. So if the ones on his back aren't self-inflicted -”

“- then the ones on his arms aren't, either,” Sherlock finishes for her. “Good theory, thought of it myself. But there's a hole.”

Oh, Molly thinks but doesn't say, because why should she? Though a large part of her desires to impress this attractive figure, she knows a correct conclusion is more important than an impressive one.

“The scars on his arms are similar yet varied, as is often the case with anything man-made. Think penmanship. If a man were to sit down and write out an entire paper by hand, his letters wouldn't be identical. They'd be quite similar, but different factors would alter each of them, if only in minute ways. Patterns? Yes. Perfect matches? No.”

And then he glides over to the corpse, flipping it to reveal Small’s backside. No one tries to stop him.

“But these,” he gestures emphatically to the scars on Small’s back. “are identical. All done in exactly the same manner. No hurried ones when he can hear someone coming. None particularly deep on a particularly bad day. No variation whatsoever.”

“So you were right,” It's startling how he redirects so quickly without the slightest change in tone. “The ones on his back weren't done by him, but the ones on his arms were, which fits in perfectly with his history. Now, what can we conclude?”

Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth between Molly and Lestrade, alight with an exuberance that slowly dulls as neither of them respond. 

“Do you - do you really not get it? Really?”

Even at his dubiousness, Molly isn't abashed. She's awed. Star struck, but it isn't his looks this time. It's his passion, his drive. His voice (rumbling, baritone, gorgeous) was a wonder before, but now it's backed up by life. Molly is thrilled. By watching him crack the code. By the certainty in his certainty. By him.

“What?” she asks. Not demanding, or impatient, or even in thinly-veiled envy. She asks because she's just as into it as he is. She wants to know. 

“The killer made those marks. He went out of his way to replicate Jonathan Small’s. This pattern is intricate - too intricate. Purposeful. Our dear murderer wanted it to look convincing, and he did so perfectly. He just didn't count for mankind’s inherent imperfection.”

A satisfied smirk whips across Sherlock’s face, his eyes sparking. Arms folded behind his back, posture erect, all movement ceased...this is somehow the most lively Molly thinks she's seen him thus far. Surveying the corpse, gathering data - that was one thing, but solving the puzzle and sharing his discovery with peers seems to set Sherlock ablaze. He’s alive.

As is Molly’s heart. Though ironically, she feels quite breathless. She supposes, given her surroundings, she can't really complain.

“And furthermore,” Sherlock adds tantalizingly. “These scars are the key to our culprit. Funny how many forms of the fingerprint there are if you really look.”

“...fingerprint? We checked for one everywhere, and even if we hadn't, I'm sure Molly would've noticed.”

Oh. Right. Lestrade’s still here.

Molly answers faster than Sherlock, which is apparently possible, “It's a metaphor.”

Sherlock nods in her direction, “Precisely.”

At this, Lestrade sighs, appearing worn, “I want answers, Sherlock, not metaphors, so can you please give me anything you've got? A man has died, I’ll remind you.”

This time it's him who leaves no room for questioning, and to Molly’s surprise, Sherlock concedes. Slackening enough to actually seem human, he meets Lestrade’s gaze steadily, transitioning from mad genius to calculating machine in a matter of mere seconds.

“The killer must've had plenty of time to do the job,” he begins, Lestrade wincing at the murder-job comparison (Molly actually finds the simplicity refreshing, if she's being honest). 

“No one would've bothered making such precise incisions if under any sort of time limit. Conclusion, there was none.”

“He could've done them at different times. Maybe an abusive relationship?” Lestrade speculates.

“Creative, Detective Inspector, I'll give you that, but no. They're all in the same stage of healing, meaning they probably happened around the same time, unlike the ones on his arms - another nail in the ‘he didn't make any of these’ coffin.” 

“No offense,” he adds to Molly, obviously not meaning what he says.

Nevertheless, she provides a good-natured smile, “None taken. Anything else?”

She perhaps adds the last bit too eagerly, but can she really be blamed? Eyes, hair, height, voice...all gorgeously enhancing an already striking picture. Helping herself is but a distant dream. Or maybe he’s the dream. It would make a lot of sense.

Sherlock smiles, appearing delighted, then proceeds, “We also know the killer had an eye for detail, something rare as of late. Pity I’ve already caught him; he might have been fun.”

At last, Molly is taken aback. She glances at Lestrade and sees the same distaste mirrored there, in his countenance. Then she looks back at Sherlock, who doesn't seem to register the impropriety of his words.

“...fun?” She echoes.

“Fun,” Sherlock affirms. “Please don't saddle me with the burden of repetition, Dr. Hooper.”

“Er...sorry, Mr. Holmes -”

“Sherlock is fine.”

“Sherlock, then. I just…what do you mean, ‘fun’?”

“Pleasurable, entertaining. The very opposite of dull,” His words are the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

Molly wants to say more - nearly does, actually, but Lestrade sends her a look. Drop it.

So she does. 

Sherlock continues, “And lastly, the killer must've known of Small’s self-harm habits. Of course, he could've simply noticed the scars while committing the crime, but balance of probability says it's the former.”

“But he still would’ve needed to kill Small; how did he get in a fatal wound and still make it look self-inflicted? Wouldn't Small have been struggling?” Molly asks.

“Another good observation, Dr. Hooper,” Sherlock compliments.

“Molly, please, if I'm calling you Sherlock.”

“Molly it is,” A quick, nearly imperceptible smile flickers on his face before vanishing. “And consider the time. Four o’clock in the morning? Small was asleep. The murderer, if careful, had all the time in the world to get in that first stab and make it look perfect.” 

And now Sherlock glances at each of his companions, clearly reveling in the tale he's built up in his head. He's somehow entirely here, in this moment, searing with discovery, and...distant. On some other ethereal plane of existence. Estranged from all company. From humanity itself, perhaps.

“So, if we know the murderer had no time constraints, we can assume he had no family of his own to get back too. A job, though, and not a religious man.”

“How -?” 

“Yesterday was a Sunday, Inspector. Carefully chosen to avoid work conflict, but without consideration of a church.” 

Sherlock refocuses on his narrative, Lestrade nodding at his answer, “But he picked four o’ clock in the morning. Not for himself; he’d be free all day. And if he knew of Small’s self-infliction, he'd most likely know his victim held no Sunday obligations.” 

“And then,” he keeps pressing, and Molly’s heart keeps beating. Almost rhythmically, in time with his streamlike movements, “even ignoring the oddity in attacking at night when he has all Sunday, there's the time itself. Four a.m. Why not midnight? Or one? Or eleven-thirty? Two, maybe, but four? Oddly late for a nighttime attack, oddly early for the next day, so why?”

Why? Molly echoes internally, the question sparking every synapse of her brain to - well, not to life. They've always been alive, so why does she feel as if she's never truly, properly thought until this moment? With him. 

“Because he's familiar with the victim’s sleeping schedule. And has extensive knowledge of Small’s cutting. And has an eye for detail.”

“The point?” Lestrade prompts...pointedly (Molly silently chuckles at her own pun).

“Think, Lestrade. Who would know so much?”

“It's pretty...intimate knowledge. Was he close to anyone?” Molly feels self-conscious, with her dangling tag and incorrect theories and this Eiffel Tower of a man, but she can't help herself. He brings it out of her, even if it makes her feel silly.

A strange feeling - nice, to be certain, but definitely strange - worms around inside of Molly. She's met few people who share her fascination with the morbid, and even fewer who will openly babble about such matters, raving as if graced with a million pounds. And despite the facetiousness that pervades his every action, Molly finds she quite fancies him. Er, it.

No...him. Definitely him. 

But anyway, with Sherlock, suddenly those thoughts Molly would usually keep locked away are okay. Perfectly acceptable. Because he's honest. Blunt (force trauma, some would say), but how is that any worse than the fake pleasantries dolled out on a regular basis? Molly uses them herself quite often, a product of her painstaking pacifism. Yet Sherlock makes it okay to explore the darker side of human. He's proof that not everything has to be nice to be good.

She believes that, by the way. That Sherlock is good. How can someone so brilliant and passionate be bad?

“No,” he says, but she doesn't have to snap back to focus. She's been hanging on to his every word, “and that, Lestrade, is the ‘point.’ If he didn't have sentimental relationships, then who would possibly know this? Who do you confide your troubles in? Your sleeping habits...your issues with self-harm…”

“A therapist!” Molly, sounding like an overly-enthused child dying to provide an answer, tries her best not to blush.

Sherlock blinks at her for a moment, pausing. Oops, she thinks, “Er, sorry.”

An expression Molly has as of yet not seen from him crops up. Not fiery, but not dispassionate. Like a toddler meeting the world...puzzled, maybe? No, not puzzled. Of course not. How could she be a mystery to him?

Sherlock recovers quickly, “Uh, yes. A therapist. He must have one.”

“That's where we got a lot of his information,” says Lestrade, his eyes widening as the pieces fall in place. Despite his obvious reservations with Sherlock’s character, he seems to have swiftly moved past it all as justice draws nigh. 

“Then you should get to work, Detective Inspector. My work, however, is done, but do please inform me of any interesting details, whether from this case or another.”

“Right you are, Sherlock, and I'll be sure to tell you if anything pops up, even if so many things are screaming at me not to,” Lestrade gives a fond chuckle, quite telling after his previous behavior around Sherlock; Molly begins to wonder if she's not alone in her appreciation for their wayward associate.

Sherlock and Molly are soon left alone when Inspector Lestrade departs to make his arrest. 

...oh. Alone. Okay.

Come on, Molly, she mentally encourages herself. Just be yourself. She likes those things, the cheesy little poster sayings. Maybe she, like her college cat poster advises, can “just hang in there."

“D-Do you need to be going too?” Molly asks, knowing she can't expect too much. Already, she sees he’s not one for this sort of thing. Socializing. 

Sherlock frowns down at her. He looks...puzzled? Again? Why? Nonetheless, Molly senses an aura of confusion and, for the life of her, can't trace its source. Has she done something? Usually she's good at this, interpreting others’ moods. Yet with him, it's different. She's different, and she doesn't know if that's good or bad. If she wants to change at all.

“You don't want me to,” he says plainly. 

Molly flushes, mouth pressed tightly together, as if her individual lips are seeking comfort from one another. She's that obvious, huh?

“W-Well, no, not if you don't want to,” she downplays. “Do whatever you'd like.”

“Whatever I’d like…” Sherlock repeats, frown still in place, eyes narrowed. Why is he frowning?

“What would you like?” Molly’s genuinely curious here. She watches in interest as Sherlock’s eyes roam across the lab, taking in all the equipment. And her. He takes in her, for whatever reason.

Finally, Sherlock tells her. He seems almost sheepish, “Can I...use the lab?”

“The...lab?” 

“Yes, the lab. I don't have access to a proper one currently. If you'd allow me free reign, it would most certainly be of benefit. Oh, and do you have any other cadavers?”

He stares at her expectantly, waiting. And for some reason, in spite of every protocol, in spite what some would call his absurdity, in spite of his apathy toward common human decency, she’ll do it for him. Why, why, why? 

“Okay…” Molly proceeds to gather up specific items as he relays them stoically (including, yes, a cadaver). Sherlock doesn't blink twice, all business, falling right into place. He fills an emptiness she hadn't known was present in the lab.

Hopefully this doesn't start a precedent. But then, would she mind if it did?

 

Why, why, why?

He could try and convince himself he only did it for the lab, but Sherlock knows that isn't it. Not the only reason he stayed behind. With her. The lab girl. Molly.

She was intriguing, Molly Hooper. When he first stepped in, it was obvious she fancied him, and it left an instinctive distaste in his mouth. Women are always so silly with their little “crushes.” Nonsensical, overbearing, and swift to lose interest once his personality comes into play. Sherlock assumed Molly would be the same.

He miscalculated.

She was straightforward. Pragmatic. Each of Molly’s actions served a purpose. She didn't act much, either; Molly, to Sherlock, is a perfect depiction of quality over quantity. She evidently knew, as he does, that quality matters more. He appreciated that from the get-go.

Smart, too. While not as sharp as he, Molly displayed signs of a fairly high intellect. High enough to keep up with him and even offer her own insights, but humble enough to recognize he's a different brand of genius and avoid attempting to outdo him. A unique intellect, one which he himself has never been able to call upon when faced with someone smarter (namely, Mycroft). 

“Brother mine, have you any intention of speaking? You are usually so temperamental with your words.”

Speaking of Mycroft…

“Childish, really,” the older, cleverer, far more infuriating Holmes adds. “I almost find the silence refreshing.”

Sherlock really shouldn't let Mycroft irk him so, but oh, the git. 

“And you expect me to engage in conversation with someone who’s persisted in unwarranted insults since my conception? Slipping, Mycroft. Slipping.”

His older brother quirks an eyebrow, “But you did engage me, just now. Could it be because you know my insults are warranted?”

Sherlock desperately wants to smack him, “You needn't employ the Socratic method with everyone. Last time I checked, I was an adult. Fully autonomous.”

“Then stop engaging in such childish antics as the ‘silent treatment.’ I am merely attempting to converse, and you are being patently immature.”

Sherlock could easily throttle Mycroft with the tie coiled stiffly around his older brother’s neck. Or slip poison into the too-sweet tea (how does he not collapse from sugar overdose?) perched on Mycroft’s desk. The usually paranoid government official wouldn't suspect a thing; food and drink are the reliabilities in Mycroft’s world. He lives for that tea. That simperingly sweet tea, just like its drinker. Well, simperingly sweet with fellow government officials. Not Sherlock. Mycroft is painfully fake with everyone, but he's never bothered with Sherlock, who isn't sure if that's an insult but decides to be offended anyway.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” he demands, knowing exactly what Big Brother wants. Screw Big Brother.

“Simple. A game of deductions.”

“Do I get a turn?”

“No.”

Oh well. Mycroft would’ve beaten him anyway. Insufferable.

“While I'd usually never deny the opportunity to put your overly confident self in place -” Of course he wouldn't. “- I feel you are at even more of a disadvantage this time around.”

Sherlock scowls, “And why, exactly, is that?”

Mycroft smiles, and it's not fake. Because the only true enjoyment he gets from Sherlock is besting him. Flooring him. Snatching away any glimpse of pride Sherlock could possibly have.

Git.

“Because you, brother dearest, are the object of examination today. Congratulations.”

Sherlock does his best to reveal nothing. Rule Number One of Mycroft torture: Deprive him of his beloved data.

Alas, Mycroft is not deterred (yet). Instead, he merely asks lightly, “You had one of your little cases today, didn't you? How did that go?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Step Two: Be stubborn and unreasonable, “Again with the Socratic method. The definition of insanity is repeatedly doing what doesn't work, you know.”

“How did it go?” 

“Fine.” 

Oooh, a mix of One and Two. Good going, Sherlock.

“You're being especially difficult today. Feeling irritable?”

“Why would I be feeling irritable?” Sherlock evades.

“Drugs?” Mycroft suggests, using that tone. The one that never existed until recently. The reminder tone, reminder of everything.

“Not drugs. Not now,” his response is dignified as he rolls his sleeve up to reveal two nicotine patches stuck to his skin.

Mycroft smiles delicately at his answer and the sight of the patches, “Good. That leads me to only one conclusion.”

“What?” It's demanding, but not exactly angry. Curious, that. How swiftly moods change.

“I understand you visited the morgue today?”

“Yes.”

“To examine a body?”

“Yes.”

“And were assisted by a Dr. Molly Hooper?”

Too fast (idiot), “Yes.”

“And you...stayed behind? After the case?”

A pause. A long, buffering pause. Mycroft lets the silence stretch.

Finally, Sherlock shoots back as smoothly as he can manage, “Two questions, big brother. That's cheating.”

Rather than rising to the bait, Mycroft levels Sherlock with a cool, studying gaze.

“Asking to stay behind in and of itself wasn't exactly out of character, what with your scientist brain and lack of proper equipment to call your own. But you were so…” A grin crawls across his face. “Hesitant.”

“How do you kn-”

“Eyes everywhere, Sherlock. Now, you’re not guilty by nature. Indeed, you're very entitled, so what about this particular scenario made you so careful? Dare I say...considerate?”

Sherlock drums his fingers rapidly on the arm of his current chair across from Mycroft. Waiting. Challenging. Go on. Hit me with anything. You’re wrong.

“And after a while, you didn’t really have a reason to stay, but for whatever reason you did. Until - oh? Ah, yes. Dr. Hooper finally packs up and leaves for the day, hours past when she was supposed to.”

Sherlock abruptly stands up, using every inch of his superior height to get the edge over his brother. Attempting to impose.

“Whatever you're implying, Mycroft - I can already tell you it's wrong. So wrong. So very, very wrong.” 

“You left just when the young doctor did. This is simply fact, which you can't refute, I'm afraid.”

Any former feelings of affinity have vanished. Sherlock is truly, properly mad. He wants to punch Mycroft, prove to him who exactly would win in a fight. A physical one, at least.

“She was my invitation, my only ticket in there,” was his attempt at justification.

“Since when have you cared?” Mycroft fires back. His fire is always so uncommonly cold.

“I don’t,” Sherlock insists. “I don't care about her, about any of it! I just wanted the lab.”

“Did you, now?” Mycroft drawls.

“Of course!”

Sherlock pierces his brother, almost pleadingly. As pleadingly as he’ll allow himself.

“Don't you believe me? Mycroft? Don't you?”

Then they're reversed; Mycroft pierces him. Smile slipping off (as if it were ever strong in the first place), his face is suddenly a picture of gravity. Premonition. Knowing. Precaution. He is the Mycroft Holmes that reels Sherlock in better than anyone else. Keeps him in tow. Stills the chaos. Sherlock, for all his resentment, would do anything this Mycroft says. He always did. Because this Mycroft turns everything into a matter of logic, like any problem can be solved if you're clever enough. 

Sherlock would very much like a solution, so he listens close. Even leans in.

Mycroft’s words are low, deathly, and commanding, “Make me.”

Sherlock intends to.

 

 

… that is, until he receives a text. From Molly Hooper. He gave her his number, in case anything were to pop up.

Sherlock? It's Molly! You know, Molly Hooper? From the lab? Anyway we just got in a body and I thought maybe you'd wanna take a look at it??? Totally up to you but I thought I'd late you know!!! 

***let oops haha!

Noting with a little smile that she texts with decipherable prose, he responds (not too) quickly that he’ll be there to take a look. It's the first time he doesn't listen to his brother in matters like this. Human matters.

Hopefully this doesn't start a precedent. But then, would he mind if it did?


End file.
